


lift me up, lift me up

by ryuuzaou



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: First Kiss, Idiots in Love, M/M, Making Out, Mutual Pining, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Tenderness, This got away from me, Trans Jaskier | Dandelion, i'm so glad tenderness is a tag. thank u everyone, i've taken canon and punted it in the general direction of No Thank You
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:14:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23023054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryuuzaou/pseuds/ryuuzaou
Summary: Within Geralt swarms a blackness, an inky void that absorbs light and doesn’t let any back out. It’s been there for longer than he remembers, it’s what almost makes him believe when people say witchers are emotionless, because if they all have the same void that he does, then he’d understand. But when Jaskier’s eyes find his again, and he shoots a grin that’s all radiance and warmth, color bursts from the blackness, vivid and cornflower blue.He’s going to chase that feeling.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 18
Kudos: 334





	lift me up, lift me up

**Author's Note:**

> this was originally just going to be a collection of vignettes where geralt gives jaskier shiny things like a crow and then it... evolved. i'm sorta basing their relationship on their friendship in the books rather than the reluctance of the show (along w how much geralt talks in the books vs the show)
> 
> title is from [hold my hand by the fray](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rtxA-b67srw)
> 
> jaskier is trans :)

Water dances over stones as it tumbles down a little waterfall, shimmering in the early morning sunlight. The grove is warm, but the heat of midsummer has yet to overtake the day; the springwater is cool when Geralt thrusts his hands into it, cupping his palms to gather some to splash onto his face. It’s refreshing as it runs down his neck, down the skin of his bare chest, taking detours along still-raised scars, faded pink but not quite settled. 

There’s a sharp intake of air, not far from him, and then a breathy giggle. “It’s cold!” his companion exclaims, but he wades into the shallow pool anyway. His braies cling to his thighs, and he’s in a similar state of undress to Geralt, bare above the waist. Jaskier takes a quick breath, then drops into the water and bounces back up in one movement, shuddering dramatically and grinning with closed eyes. He says something else about the temperature, laughs, and begins scrubbing the dirt from his hair in earnest. 

Geralt, knowing that Jaskier will keep himself busy with his current task for a good moment, decides to indulge himself. Jaskier’s eyes are tightly shut to keep the water out, so he won’t see Geralt openly staring, which means he won’t _tease_ Geralt for openly staring. 

The water darkens a bit, thin rivulets tracing paths through the dust that’s now rinsing from Jaskier’s skin. It’s pale, mostly unmarred if not for a few skirmish scars and the two clean incisions on either side of his breastbone. Those are faded, flat to the rest of his skin; water drips across them, not along them, unlike many of Geralt’s old wounds. The cleaner Jaskier gets himself, the more relaxed his smile, until the water around him runs clear. 

Something in Geralt’s chest softens at the sight. He likes seeing Jaskier genuinely happy. He sees him happy all the time, of course—Jaskier lives his life seeking out pleasures, and if he can’t find them he creates them for himself, but there are limits to that, and boundaries. Jaskier’s smile has sharp edges, and there have been nights he’s spent grinning for hours during a performance without once looking content. He finds joy in lighting up rooms with his songs, but there’s still part of him that’s wary, that scans the faces of the men in the corners and searches for the quickest escape route in a room. 

This is a different form of happiness. This is closer to that contentment, the simple pleasure of cleanliness that means so much to the bard. Yes, he allows himself to get dirty, to go a few extra days without a bath so as to get more travelling done, but oh, does he relish running his hands down his sides and not feeling them stick with sweat or streak through mud. He does so now, his hands moving down his sides and then up his chest, slipping into his hair without catching on any tangles. Jaskier tilts his face up to the sun, springwater glistening on his skin as he takes a deep breath of fresh morning air, crisp with the scent of the freshwater and the wild cosmos that are blooming around the grove. 

Finally, Jaskier opens his eyes, and the first thing he looks toward is Geralt, who only just manages to splash more water on his face in time to avoid being caught staring. It doesn’t seem to work; Jaskier wades across the pool, approaching Geralt in careful steps on the smooth pebbles among the sand. He has no problem staring, and even though Geralt’s not looking he can feel Jaskier’s eyes raking over him, drinking him in. His eyes follow Geralt’s hands, but catch on something once they reach the waterfall. 

Half-expecting a leech or something equally unsavory, Geralt watches closely when Jaskier reaches past the flowing water and pulls something from among the stones that make up the waterfall. He holds it up to the light, gasping, and then immediately holds it out for Geralt to see. 

It’s a small, light orange crystal, smooth and transparent from the running water. It’s only barely larger than a standard coin, but Jaskier holds it like it’s a treasure. 

“Topaz, d’you think?” Jaskier asks, plucking it from his palm and examining it close to his face again. “A gorgeous piece, smoothed and polished by Mother Nature herself! And the color, oh, just barely too light to be exactly perfect, but it’s close! Very close!”

“What’s the perfect color of topaz?” Geralt can’t help but ask, wondering if he’s been cheated out of some specific knowledge. He accepts gemstones as payment, and if there’s a price he can haggle up, or a price that Jaskier could have haggled up but hasn’t, he’d like to know it. 

Jaskier holds the crystal with his thumb and forefinger, bringing it up to Geralt’s temple. He glances between it and Geralt’s eye a few times, and then he smiles. “I’d consider it perfect if it were just a bit darker. But I’ll make do!” 

Geralt blinks. Is Jaskier saying that his ‘perfect’ color of topaz is one that matches Geralt’s eyes? That… can’t be it. What else could he mean, then? He held it up and compared the two colors directly. Perhaps it’s a coincidence. Perhaps Jaskier’s perfect topaz just happens to be a similar color to Geralt’s eyes, and it’s the easiest, closest comparison. It must be something like that.

Still, he feels warmth flood from that soft spot in his chest at the sight of Jaskier cradling the crystal in his palms, every so often glancing back up to look at Geralt and smiling again when their eyes meet. The contentment is back. He can feel it, can smell it on Jaskier’s clean skin. Though, Jaskier’s heartbeat should be slower. The way it is now, it sounds like it’s slowing down from a racing pace. Geralt doesn’t understand. But he likes it. 

“I never took you for a collector,” Geralt muses, interrupting a stream of words he hadn’t been paying attention to. 

Jaskier hums. “That would likely be because I’m far from it. I don’t often have the funds to add to a collection of precious gems, and if I do, I’d like to think I’m smart enough to use it on alcohol or something else more useful. Still,” his expression softens, “I’ll admit, I’m fond of trinkets that have ties to happy memories.” 

“Is this a happy memory, then?” 

“My skin is soft and clean, the sun is warm, the soft scent of flowers permeates the air. We’re washing only dirt from our skin, no blood or gore, you’re uninjured… and I’m with you,” Jaskier says, turning his face to the sun again. “Yes, I’d say this is a happy memory.”

Within Geralt swarms a blackness, an inky void that absorbs light and doesn’t let any back out. It’s been there for longer than he remembers, it’s what almost makes him believe when people say witchers are emotionless, because if they all have the same void that he does, then he’d understand. But when Jaskier’s eyes find his again, and he shoots a grin that’s all radiance and warmth, color bursts from the blackness, vivid and cornflower blue. Geralt had been squatting, but he drops down fully to his knees at the sensation, hardly able to stay upright, staring openly once more. 

He’s going to chase that feeling.




Geralt has been gone for 16 hours. 

He awoke at first light, and left just after dawn. It is now nearly midnight. Jaskier has been waiting for him since waking up, disappointed to not see his face before he left. He’s antsy. He’s been performing on and off all day, trying to distract himself. He knows that Geralt will, eventually, walk through the door, and every time it opens Jaskier’s eyes dart to it, and the disappointment from that morning drags on throughout the day. 

“It isn’t like it’s, it’s, a pack of them, or something!” Jaskier grumbles into his near-empty tankard, his lute on the table beside him. He isn’t really talking to anyone in particular, just the air around him, staring at the space across the table where Geralt should be sitting. “They said it was one, didn’t they? Just the one? And he’s taken this long with it! Damn it. Damn him. That bastard better have a damn good story for me, I’ll tell you that right now, a _damn_ good story for me!” He downs the rest of his beer and grimaces, squinting at the cup. “Instead, he just _leaves_ me here, with beer that you’d need to have cursed taste buds to like, and—damn it all, Geralt’d like it, the savage, ‘s got no appreciation for anything that doesn’t taste like monster piss.”

The door opens. Jaskier perks, then drops his chin to the table with a groan. Still not his witcher. What’s the point of having a door if Geralt isn’t going to walk through it? 

“Where’s that bard? Hey! Sing somethin’ else!” shouts someone from across the room.

Jaskier heaves a sigh, grabs his lute, and pastes a smile on his face. “Of course, my good man!” he calls back. For the first time that day, he turns away from the door. As he makes sure his lute is properly tuned, he grumbles under his breath, “If that headstrong dumbass has gotten himself into trouble, I’ll tear him to pieces, damn it, _pieces,_ he can suck my sweet—” 

“I loathe to imagine how that sentence ends,” says a deep, mildly bemused voice behind him, and Jaskier forgets his adoring fans (an exaggeration, perhaps) to whirl around and beam at the man who’s approached behind him.

“Geralt!” he gasps. He tries to step forward, tempted to give him a proper whack to the side of the head as a punishment for his absence, but his drunken limbs are still recovering from turning so quickly, and Jaskier stumbles. His raised hand lands on Geralt’s shoulder, the one with his lute outward to try to catch his balance. 

He doesn’t catch it. Luckily, Geralt does: one hand grabs his waist, the other his lute, as if worried Jaskier would drop it otherwise. Jaskier steadies himself, blinking a few times, and then laughs. “You—oh, you, you absolute _fiend._ You can’t just go monster hunting for a _full day_ and expect me to forget about it because you, because you _dance_ with me!” He laughs again, falling forward against the black leather of Geralt’s chestplate. “I was worried about you, you bastard.”

“Did you drink away all your faith in my capabilities?” Geralt asks, easing Jaskier down into the chair he’d just leapt up from. Jaskier almost doesn’t let him go when he moves away, but when he sees that Geralt is sitting down in the place he should’ve been _hours_ ago, he allows it. 

Jaskier swats at the arm that Geralt rests on the table, then keeps his hand close. Almost touching, but not quite. “Far from it, I have such faith in your capabilities that I expected you to finish by noon! At the latest! And yet, here you are, waltzing in as midnight tolls, and you don’t even have blood on your face!” 

Geralt snorts. He peers into Jaskier’s tankard, huffing a bit when he sees it empty. “It isn’t midnight,” he corrects, holding up a finger to the barmaid for a drink. 

“Oh, it isn’t midnight, well, that makes it all the better, doesn’t it?” Jaskier is back to grumbling. He flicks Geralt’s forearm. “Fine. Fine. Go on then, tell me everything. What kept you so long?”

Without moving the arm on the table, Geralt reaches into his pouch and holds out whatever he’d withdrawn for Jaskier to see. 

Jaskier is expecting something gory, something like teeth or claws or maybe an eyeball, but what Geralt has in his palm is far from that. It’s the topaz from the river, now delicately wrapped in silver wire, strung on a black leather cord. It’s likely one of the most beautiful pieces of jewelry he’s ever seen, simple but elegant, but maybe it’s because Geralt did it for him. 

“Where…?” Jaskier doesn’t finish, just reaches out to almost touch it. His fingertips rest on Geralt’s palm. “How did you…? Is this why you were gone all day? Waiting for this to be finished? Is… is it for me?”

“It’s not for me,” Geralt says by way of an answer, one side of his lips twitching upward. 

Carefully, as if it’s made of glass, Jaskier picks it up and holds it between two fingers, turning it around to see all the sides. It’s simple at first glance, but the more he examines the more complicated it gets, with thinner wire twirling around thicker curves and spirals, twisting up from the base to the top.

“This is a work of art,” he breathes, his eyes stinging. “Nothing short of a masterpiece.” He stands, walks around the table, and then turns his back to Geralt. He grabs the ends of the cord and holds them up, glancing over his shoulder. “Will you tie it for me? Please?” 

The lighting in the inn is dim, and there might be a tear in his eye, but Jaskier can still see the way the lines of Geralt’s face smooth and soften, a tiny smile pulling harder at the corner. He stands, his chest inches from Jaskier’s back; he can feel the witcher’s warmth through their clothes, the gentle breath on the nape of his neck, then the brush of his knuckles. 

There’s chatter and laughter throughout the inn, but the silence between them looms. Geralt’s fingers have stilled, but he doesn’t lower them. He stays close, so close. Have they ever intentionally been this close before? It feels so much more intimate than they’ve ever allowed themselves to be. Jaskier, thrown off by this new development, does what always brings him comfort: talks. 

“I’ve heard that topaz enhances the wearer’s charisma,” Jaskier says, his fingertip tracing a spiral, “and that it helps with self-confidence.”

“Like you needed any more of that.” 

“Love, too,” Jaskier adds, fingertips brushing the stone. “It’s said to bring love to whoever wears it.”

“Mm,” Geralt replies. He smooths his hands over Jaskier’s shoulders. “On a more practical note, the jeweler said it’s protection against negative magic and untimely death.”

Jaskier leans into the touch. “So it’s perfect for me, huh?”

“Perfect,” agrees the other. There’s hesitation in his tone, like he’s about to say or do something else, but he doesn’t. 

When it feels like Geralt is about to move away and sit back down, Jaskier spins (almost slamming his hip into the table, the alcohol in his blood stealing his grace) and throws his arms over Geralt’s shoulders. The witcher tenses, just for a moment, before he relaxes. Not completely, but enough to allow him to set his hands on Jaskier’s hips. One even moves to the small of his back. It’s the most of a hug Jaskier has ever gotten out of Geralt, and he nuzzles into his neck. 

“Thank you, Geralt,” Jaskier whispers, smiling against Geralt’s neck and squeezing. “I-I barely know what to say. Thank you. I’ll treasure it.”

“You don’t know what to say?” Geralt’s voice is a rumble, nearly inaudible. “Guess I should give you things more often.” 

“If that’s your takeaway, then yes. I guess you should.”




It escalates from there. More often than not, when Geralt returns from a job, he has something for Jaskier. Little things, easy to tuck away and travel with. 

From a hunt through a dilapidated mansion for a pack of barghests (it turned out to be a regular dog and her excitable pups, which was a welcome surprise, though it meant a lower pay), Geralt had found an old silver ring. The precise carvings of a flower with a long stem had been what caught his attention, knowing that Jaskier is fond of dainty things like this. It fits snugly on Jaskier’s little finger, and he can frequently be seen admiring it. 

From a miserable search in a perpetually icy swamp (which made for more slips in slush than he would like to admit) for an ‘unusually large’ kikimore, Geralt literally stumbled upon a narrow fallen tree. Upon glaring at it and kicking it out of frustration, something had broken off from the force and flown off, landing on another nearby trunk, where it glimmered in the sunlight. It was a piece of amber, with a small cluster of pine needles trapped within it. Moments after pocketing it, he’d heard a splash, and the fight was on. Geralt doesn’t believe in luck, but Jaskier does, so when he’d presented the amber to him, Geralt had called it a good luck charm he didn’t know he needed. Jaskier gave him a knowing look.

From a consultation in an alderman’s estate that Jaskier accompanied him to, Geralt had caught the bard casting longing looks to a collection of hair pins in a lady’s room, while the alderman had been pointing out the windows where the garkain had been seen from. He’d watched Jaskier’s hand twitch toward them, like he’d been tempted to steal one, but had shaken off the thought and started fiddling with his topaz pendant. Geralt had spent the night there and sent Jaskier to the safety of an inn across town, and during his stay, swiped one of the hair pins. The alderman had drunkenly told him before retiring that the lady had left him years ago, and he hadn’t touched her things since, didn’t even want to look at them. Geralt gave him one less thing to look at, and in the same night took care of his garkain issue. Jaskier didn’t question it when Geralt had wordlessly tucked the pin into the hair behind his ear.

There are more instances of it, of Geralt bringing Jaskier shiny things like a friendly crow, but with each one is the only thing that mattered to Geralt: Jaskier grins at him so wide his eyes almost close, crinkling up at the corners, and Geralt can hear his heartbeat pick up. The bright blue drowns out the pitch black, swelling in his chest, a tidal wave crashing against the rocky shore of the walls he’s built up around his heart, the walls that Jaskier tears apart like they’re nothing, with his songs and his words and his gentle touches. 

It doesn’t make any sense to Geralt. How could someone like _Jaskier_ get to him like this? A stupid bard that doesn’t know how to shut his mouth, who’d started following him out of boredom and mild curiosity and then never stopped. Loud and disgustingly mortal, knowing more ways to get into trouble than he does to get out of them, living his life like every day is a new challenge to test the limits of the people around him. 

Sometimes, Geralt wonders if he does it on purpose. Toes the line one too many times with the wrong person, always trusting Geralt to get him out of whatever he’d gotten himself into in time. As sure as the band on his finger and the topaz that hangs at the hollow of his throat. And yet, every time, he proves to be correct. Geralt ‘Doesn’t-Get-Involved-With-Human-Issues’ of Rivia forces himself between his bard and whoever he’d scorned. He feels like some kind of trained dog, guarding the owner of his heart while the man himself smirks over his shoulder. 

Is that it? Does Jaskier own his heart? 

Geralt doesn’t know why he’s allowed his thoughts to run this rampant through his mind. Perhaps it’s the ale, as if that’s a valid excuse, as if a witcher’s mind could go hazy from half a tankard of mediocre beer. No. There are no valid excuses. Not anymore. Jaskier has dominated his thoughts for the better part of the past year, ever since he’d realized how much Jaskier’s happiness affects him. 

Sighing, Geralt takes a long drink, turning on the barstool to scan the tavern. Jaskier had been singing when Geralt had last noticed, before he’d gotten caught up in analyzing his feelings (what feelings? Witchers don’t have feelings, he keeps telling himself, even as something in him scoffs in a voice that sounds like Jaskier’s). The tavern is lively, but Jaskier isn’t standing on the same chair he had been before. In fact, Jaskier is nowhere in sight. 

Hm. Jaskier is nowhere in sight. That can’t be right. He always tells Geralt if he’s going to retire, be it in a bed in the room they’ve rented or in the bed of a particularly interested member of the audience—

Geralt scowls. He tries to avoid thoughts of Jaskier with anyone else, because they often leave him with anger sizzling just beneath his skin that doesn’t go away until he sees Jaskier once again in arm’s reach. It had seemed, lately, that Jaskier has been taking less lovers, spending more nights stretched out on the other side of the bed as Geralt, babbling about the day and the crowd until he’s satisfied saying goodnight. 

“Have you seen the bard?” asks Geralt to the nearest barmaid. 

“Saw ‘im leavin’ with two fellas on ‘is ‘eel,” she replies, and raises an eyebrow. “Better go catch ‘im, witcher, before ‘e slips through your fingers.”

He narrows his eyes at her, which she shrugs off and brings her platter of mugs to another table. Geralt takes another moment to brood, staring at the door. Jaskier is probably just having some fun with the locals. He’s not a damsel in distress. He doesn’t need Geralt running after him wherever he goes. 

And yet, he still goes. There’s a nugget of suspicion in his gut that he can’t chase away. It prompts him to leave his beer behind (a waste of coin, since he’s smarter than to drink something he’d left in a crowded room) and follow the barmaid’s direction where she’d seen Jaskier last. 

“—gentlemen, to be sure, certainly you’ve had your fair share of, ah, hired help, but I assure you, while I am deeply flattered, I’m far from ‘for sale,’ as eloquent of words as those were to describe me,” Jaskier is saying from somewhere to the right of the tavern door. 

Geralt heads toward the voice, coming from the small alleyway between the tavern and the inn next door. In the dim light of late dusk, Geralt can see Jaskier with his back against the wall, with two men looming, apparently crowding him into such a trapped position. One of the men says something in a low voice, leaning in close to speak directly into Jaskier’s ear. His eyes widen, his polite smile dropping for a moment, before he’s talking again.

“ _No,_ dear sir, you do once again have me confused for someone I’m not. You see, I’m—I’m engaged! You see this betrothal pendant? I could never— _stop that—_ ”

In the blink of an eye, Geralt is there, standing between Jaskier and the men. He’s bristling, eyes dark with unspoken threats, one hand on Jaskier’s thigh behind him and the other on the hilt of his sword. 

“Ah, Geralt,” Jaskier says, the relief palpable in his tone. “I was just bidding these gentlemen good evening.” 

“Yes,” Geralt growls, “I’m sure they were about to say the same.”

The three glower at each other for a tense moment. One of the two takes half a step forward. Jaskier’s hand fists in Geralt’s shirt. Geralt’s sword whispers against the sheath as it’s drawn, held aloft between them. The offending strangers glance down at it, and seem to recall the rumors of the razors that Geralt carries (so sharp you don’t notice your arm’s off ‘til it’s on the ground in front of you), and they back away. When the one that had stepped forward casts one last glance to Jaskier, another warning growl surfaces from within Geralt’s chest, deep and almost inhuman, and the stranger huffs and follows his companion out of the alley. 

Even after they’re gone, it takes some soft reassurances from Jaskier before Geralt moves. He doesn’t say anything, just sheathes his blade and heads for the inn, knowing Jaskier will be only a few steps behind him. Inside, there’s a woman sitting in a rocking chair, knitting and humming. When they enter, she grabs a chest from the floor beside her and hands over a key after telling them the price of a room. Jaskier digs through his coin purse while Geralt hovers near the staircase, torn between wanting to be away from people and not wanting to let Jaskier out of his sight. He settles on the latter, though he is tempted to grab Jaskier by the collar and drag him to the room when the bard starts making small talk with the woman. He seems to understand the mood Geralt is in, because he wraps up the conversation quicker than he ordinarily would, walking over to Geralt with a smile. 

When they finally make it to the room and the door is closed behind them, Jaskier fiddling with the lock, Geralt speaks. “Engaged, huh?”

Jaskier jumps. He shoots Geralt a sheepish smile. “You heard that? Yes, well, I fear I had little else to use as an excuse to get those charming individuals off my dick, as it were. It was just an excuse, nothing more. I’ll even apologize if you want me to.”

“Nothing more?” he parrots, beginning to set his various belongings on the one table in the room. “That’s a shame.”

“Is it?” Jaskier has moved farther into the room. He sits down on the bed, beginning to unlace his boots. “How so?”

And then Geralt is _there,_ standing in front of him, over him, his head cocked to one side and his eyes raking over Jaskier. It feels damn near predatory, but there are no nerves buzzing within the bard, just thrill, eagerness. He feels his lips quirking up as he flutters his lashes, gazing up at Geralt through them. 

“I—” Geralt begins, taking a long breath in through his nose. His eyes close tightly, his hands fists at his sides, like he’s holding himself back. _Don’t,_ Jaskier wants to say, but he has a feeling he won’t need to. “I have something else to give you.”

“How uncharacteristically generous,” Jaskier murmurs, as if he isn’t wearing a variety of the witcher’s gifts. His lips part as his tongue flicks out to wet them, and Geralt’s eyes follow the motion. “I believe I’ve something for you, as well.”

They meet halfway, Geralt with one knee on the bed between Jaskier’s, his hands ghosting over the sides of his face, along the length of his neck, over his shoulders. It’s with no pressure, giving Jaskier the space to draw back if he wants to (but why would he ever want to?). While Jaskier appreciates the sentiment, incessantly fond of Geralt’s soft side and consideration for his comfort, he’s become rather hot and bothered since the rescue in the alley, and all he really wants Geralt to do is pin him to the bed and prove to everyone in town that Jaskier is quite happily spoken for, thank you very much. 

He tries to say that with his kiss, sweet and careful for only a moment before Jaskier makes it something more. Grabbing the front of Geralt’s shirt, he tugs him closer, stretching up to wrap an arm around broad shoulders as he deepens the kiss. It’s only when Jaskier’s tongue traces Geralt’s lower lip that the witcher finally touches Jaskier, and oh, _does he._ His hands are warm, the skin rough with callouses as one rests on Jaskier’s neck, fingers dipping under his collar, while the other lands on the curve of his waist. He holds Jaskier like he’s the lifeline of a drowning man, like now that he has the bard in his arms, he doesn’t want to ever let him go. 

At the first noise that Jaskier makes, a quiet little whine, Geralt surges forward. Jaskier’s back hits the bed, Geralt’s knees on either side of his hips with his forearm propped beside his head. Geralt takes over the kiss quite quickly from there, nipping Jaskier’s bottom lip to get him to open his mouth and then dipping his tongue past his teeth. He can feel the shudder that makes its way down Jaskier’s spine. His breathing also seems shaky, so Geralt moves his kisses elsewhere, giving the other a chance to gasp for air. As soon as his lips touch the corner of Jaskier’s jaw, it tilts upward, baring his neck; it’s an open invitation that Geralt has waited too long for to refuse. He presses open-mouthed kisses down to Jaskier’s collarbone, leaves one at the hollow of his throat, right beside the topaz, before nosing his way up to his pulse point. He pauses here, inhaling deeply, savoring the scent of _Jaskier_ , geranium and cedarwood and the lingering smoke of this morning’s campfire. Jaskier’s heartbeat jumps, his hands tangling in Geralt’s hair. His neck must be more sensitive than Geralt assumed, which strikes him as a wonderful thing to be wrong about. 

Geralt’s ministrations are slow, taking his time in completely unraveling the bard beneath him. He can smell Jaskier’s lust pooling between his thighs, can hear the growing desperation in the pretty little noises he makes, especially with a particularly wanton moan that escapes when Geralt sucks and nips in _just_ the right way. 

“You’re—” Jaskier gets out, breathing hard, “you’re somehow better at this than I imagined you’d be.”

“You imagined this?”

“Of _course_ I’ve imagined this, you fucking dunce, you think you keep your hands _or nose_ to yourself when we’re forced to share a bed?”

At this, Geralt finally draws back, staring down at Jaskier with a furrowed brow. “Do I not?”

“You do not. You’re incredibly cuddly. I enjoyed it immensely back when I thought my pining was unrequited.”

“So, before tonight?”

Jaskier raises an eyebrow at him, lips puffing out in an amused pout. “I’ve known you’ve loved me for longer than just tonight, my dear witcher. I’ve just been waiting for you to figure it out. Took longer than I thought it would. Perhaps I should point out all the songs where I’m clearly in love with you?”

Geralt scoffs. As retribution for the teasing, he snakes a hand up beneath Jaskier’s undershirt, thumb tracing over one of the scars on his chest the way he’s longed to and earning a sharp intake of breath. 

It’s at this point that Geralt realizes that the void in his chest feels far less like a void, more like a pool, like the spring where they’d found the topaz. Something gradually filling, bringing him closer and closer to whole. The black has been replaced with that cornflower blue, intense as that which gazes up at him through dark lashes. 

“I’m in love with you, too,” Geralt says before he can stop himself. 

Jaskier blinks. He shakes his head slightly, blinks again, and then a grin splits his face in two. His expression turns overwhelmingly fond, to the point where all Geralt can do is kiss that stupid, dopey smile off his face. 

“I feel like I’ve lived my whole life waiting to hear you say those words,” Jaskier breathes, peppering kisses over Geralt’s face and jaw. “I’ll never find a melody as sweet as that of that sentence, dearest Geralt, my favorite muse, my beloved—”

“Shut up,” Geralt mutters, a smile on his lips. “My little lark.”

Jaskier trills at the name, and Geralt busies his lips before he starts spouting poetry again.

**Author's Note:**

> hmu on [twitter](https://twitter.com/sickvaeolus) or [tumblr](https://todoiizuku.tumblr.com)!!!


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